The two fellows were delighted at these mocking compliments, which they took, or rather pretended to take—for they were not fools—like so much ready money.
"Every good action merits reward," continued the Pincheyra, "and sooner or later that reward comes. You shall now have a proof of it," added he, taking out a little bag made of Spanish wool, the rotundity of which was pleasant to see, from under his poncho; "you have given proof of a disinterestedness and a loyalty which show me that you really are caballeros. You have refused four ounces; well, I shall be pleased to give you ten."
"Oh, caballero," cried the bandits.
"I know what you are going to say to me," pursued Don Pablo; "you were going to assert that every good action carries in itself its own reward."
"Yes, señor; you have guessed what we mean," cried Mataseis, with enthusiasm. This, however, was not at all what he thought.
"But I do not agree with that," continued Don Pablo, "I should like you thoroughly to understand that I know how to appreciate an action like yours."
He then opened the bag without appearing to notice that the bandits gloated on it, delicately introduced his long and slender fingers into its mouth, and took out just the sum promised.
"There, my braves," said he, sharing the sum between them, and at the same moment pocketing his purse; "there is your money."
The gauchos held out their hands, seized the money, and put it into their large pockets with a thrill of pleasure, mixed, however, with a little bitterness at the thought that it would have been easy, and much more profitable, to take the eight ounces from Don Emile; but people cannot think of everything. They found out their want of cleverness too late.
"Now let us return to business," coolly said Don Pablo, unceremoniously stopping the speech of the gauchos, who seemed to consider themselves bound to offer exaggerated specimens of gratitude; "have you quite decided to serve me?"